


On Wings of Fear

by Sar_Kalu



Series: A String of W.I.P's [12]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Based on A Game of Thrones, BigBrother!Lyannath, Cersei doesn't much know what to do with her firstborn, Dimension Travel, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter is Lyannath Baretheon, Jaime is scared of ALL his nephews, Lyannath Baratheon is terrifying, M/M, Multi, Rebirth, Robert loves Lyannath but also loathes him, bite sized chapters, eventually, rewritten of a fic that was posted elsewhere, some may remember, there will be magic, they have a complicated relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-04-12 14:53:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19134325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: Dying age 14, Harry Potter is reborn as the firstborn son of Robert Baratheon, King of Westeros on a dark and stormy night; and whether by nature or nurture, Lyannath Baratheon will rise a dark and controlling force upon the Iron Throne - even as a girl with white blonde hair and purple eyes conquers Essos upon the back of a black dragon.While the Targaryen girl may try to reign with Fire and Blood, and while Winter always Comes; somewhere deep inside Lyannath knows that all who dare oppose him will Hear him Roar, for his is the Fury and Magic is Might.....Originally posted (a very long time ago) on Fanfic.net under the same title.





	1. On this, His Last Day on Earth

The roar of the crowd unsettled him as he stood nervously inside the tent. The pale walls fluttered with every breath of wind and the stench of sulphur and smoke burned the hairs inside his nostrils, causing his eyes to water beneath his glasses. Every gasp, shout and scream sent shivers tingling down his spine and Harry bared his teeth in annoyance at his own perceived weakness. Fourteen years old and awaiting the very moment that could send him to his death. What did he know about dragons? How was he supposed to survive against a beast that could bite, claw and breath fire? Bitterness welled in his chest, it would have been far easier to face his doom had he people that stood behind him in support; but thus far all Harry knew was that people loathed him. Even Ron and Hermione had deserted him when his name had been spat out of the Goblet in a tongue of blue flame.

 

Funny how these things happened; by fire he had been named and by fire he would die. Harry had even heard tell that the building he had been born in had been burnt to the ground shortly after his birth. Although how true that was, Harry didn't know. Sirius had been pretty drunk that night. Green eyes narrowed as the stands beyond the off-white walls of the tent exploded into raucous cheers. It would be time to step beyond these confining walls and into an arena where a giant beast with poisonous yellow eyes and gleaming white teeth awaited him.

 

Harry stared down at the miniature figuring in his hand and sneered angrily at it. While he didn't blame the dragon for his predicament, after all it had been dragged away from its home in order for him to face it, Harry nonetheless felt little in the way of affection for the scaled beast. Bagman's excitable exclamations were whipping the crowd up into a fervour of anticipation and excitement before finally calling out the two words that Harry had been dreading for the past three hours.

 

" _Harry_ _Potter!_ "

 

Harry shoved the snarling figurine of the Hungarian Horntail into his pocket and gripped his wand firmly. _Time to_ -what was that saying? _Time to toss the dice?_ Harry smirked wryly at the irony, his entire life had been a dice toss and here he was, dicing with death yet again. Stepping free of the tent, Harry shielded his eyes from the sudden glare of the sunlight and winced as the bright light sent sharp pain lancing through his temples. Damn, but that had been unpleasant, Harry reflected as he cast his eyes up at the judges who sat high above him in their polished wood box. The fucking bastards were watching him with barely hidden contempt, life with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had made Harry extremely adept at reading facial expressions. Particularly that one.

 

Turning his face away from the sons of bitches that had set him up, Harry met the feral eyes of his opponent and felt the blood drain from his face. The dragon was easily thirty metres long with fangs the length of a small car while the long tail that coiled restlessly around the Horntail's feet was barbed with metre long spikes that flashed wickedly in the late afternoon light. The Horntail was characterised not only by glowing yellow eyes but also by midnight black scales that seemed to reflect the hot sunlight dully. Beneath the Horntail was a mound of cement coloured eggs and there, right on top, sat the golden egg. Harry gritted his teeth and crouched down low, he knew that he was supposed to summon his Firebolt but he'd never actually managed to make the charm work!

 

Panic threatened to overwhelm the fourteen year old as jeers sounded from the crowd and Bagman commented on his inaction with confusion and apprehension. Slinking from boulder to boulder, Harry crept up on the dragon, evading its cunning gaze and sharp sight. Sending a bright flash of light to his left, Harry darted right and settled himself down beside the dragons right-hind leg and watched as the vicious beast searched for the origin of the flash.

 

Harry could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sound eclipsing the incredulous roar of the crowd and the worried shouts of the Dragon Tamers. Harry looked up to the stands, his green gaze searching for his friends only to feel the bitter sting of disappointment when he failed to locate them. He would have preferred to seen them once more before he died. Harry stiffened his back with resolve and slunk beneath the Horntail, his keen eyes picking out the small gaps between each overlapping scale and noting the way there appeared to be a faintly striped pattern to the dragon's hide. A heated waft of sulphur scented air was all the warning Harry had before dagger sharp teeth snapped inches from his position.

 

Launching himself sideway, Harry scrambled away from the searching claws and snapping teeth knowing that the Horntail wouldn't risk loosing her deadly flame while he was this close to her to her eggs. Harry grunted in pain as the Horntail swept him off her nest with her barbed tail, his stomach aching from the bruising and scratches he had just survived. Baring his teeth in determination, Harry once again launched himself forwards and scrambled up the side of the nest; barely managing to tumble down the other side just as the Horntail thudded the side of the earthen nest with her spiked tail. The dragons screeches of anger spurred the teen onwards and had him reaching for the dragons eggs, his movements sending the dragons into a flurry of furious movement.

 

Flat on his belly, Harry grabbed the nearest egg and held it above his head as the Horntail made to bite him again. Intelligence glinted in flat yellow eyes and Harry met the dragons gaze with a strange kind of determined confidence as he slowly stood upright. Never once did he turn his back on the Horntail nor did he take his eyes from the dragon as he edged his way backwards to the golden egg. Harry could feel the precariousness of his position and felt his wilder magic respond to the fear and danger that Harry was more than conscious of as he stared into baleful yellow eyes. There was nothing more that Harry desired in that moment than safety, and as Harry backed away from the glaring eyes and bared teeth of the dragon in front of him, his magic reacted. Like a pulsing heartbeat, Harry could feel his terror and magic ratchet up a notch with every breath he took. His backwards steps were followed by the six meter long dragon head with her rolling eyes and bared teeth that made Harry feel understandably fearful.

 

The dragon crouched above the skinny teenager and could feel the wild magic that he was drawing into his trembling frame, the scent of magic overlapping the scent of terror and fear, and the dragon watched with horrified anticipation as the human released his magic in a blast of terrorised rage. The human's brand of magic reacted with the dragons own as the Horntail moved to protect her nest, coiling about it in a lithe snake-like movement, and the two desires intermixed in an explosive and concussive blast. Harry's desire to flee reacted with the dragons own desire to send the human away and to protect her young exploded outwards in a great conflagration of red fire and golden light where it burned around the two figures like a shield before it collapsed twice as swiftly upon the pair and imploded.

 

Above the arena in his chair on the panel of judges, Albus Dumbledore stood abruptly in horror as he watched Harry Potter's accidental magic explode outwards in a massive conflagration of fire and light and intermix with the Hungarian Horntail's own wilder brand of magic. Beside him Olympe Maxine and Igor Karkaroff let out simultaneous yells of shock and fear as the rush of wind and magic rushed over the judges and spectators. Above them in his special box, Ludo Bagman let out a shrill squeal and fell to his knees in a move that protected his head and belly; forever cowardly in his fear. Bagman had stopped commentating shortly after Harry Potter had evaded the first bite of the Horntail and he now stood once more, trembling badly, to stare over the now empty arena with his mouth gaping open and arm outstretched as he pointed down at the spot where the dragon had once resided.

 

Both Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World and the female Hungarian Horntail had disappeared. Not even the cement coloured eggs remained…


	2. A Wilder Night

Rain lashed against the window panes of the Red Keep’s birthing room. Outside the birthing room impatiently paced the large figure of King Robert Baratheon, First of his name. Nearby the King’s pacing figure, with a bowed head, stood Lord Tywin Lannister, his eldest son, Jaime, by his elbow. Where the three men waited was lit by guttering torches that smelled of greasy smoke and flickered in time with the breath of the wind that gusted in from the narrow open window at the far end of the corridor.

 

The King paused between one step and the next, frozen mid-movement, as a howling scream echoed from the birthing chamber. As if in sympathy, the wind shrieked in terrible counterpoint to the Queen’s shout - of victory or devastation, no man there knew. The silence that followed was eerie in it’s quiet. As though the land and air and sea waited for what happened next. The silence dragged and the King’s hand rose from the sword belted at his side to rake through his short black hair. Tired blue eyes met Tywin’s hazel gaze that reminded the King of a hunting cat, hungry and vicious.

 

“Rest easy, my King,” Tywin soothed the larger man without caring if he was successful or not, “Cersei knows her duty to you and the throne. You will have your heir.”

 

The King’s lips thinned and he swiped two thick fingers from his broad nose and out across his cheekbones in an exhibition of tiredness. “No worry for your daughters survival, Tywin?” The King growled, disgusted by the lack of care shown by the ageing Lord.

 

Tywin’s lip curled faintly as if the idea of caring for his daughter was as worthless as the thought of giving up his power and station at the King’s side. “Cersei knows her duty,” Tywin repeated, ignoring the way Jaime shifted at his side, white cloak rustling as if he could leap into the birthing chamber and save his beloved sister from her trials as a mother.

 

The wind had picked up and the rain was vicious in its rage. Above their head the loud whip crack of thunder echoed fiercely in the dying light of the lightning that split the dark sky in two. Cersei’s howls rose again too, as if in crescendo to her pain, suffering and desire to expel her stubborn child into the dark of the night.

 

Thunder crashed again and as the last of its rumblings dissipated, the King heard the final, high pitched shriek of his wife before the angry cry of his son travelled beyond the closed doors of the birthing chamber. Robert’s shoulders shuddered at that sound and with a crash, he burst into the circular room to spot his exhausted wife propped against enormous white pillows and a large black bear fur swathed over her legs and belly; and there, in her faintly shaking arms, lay the swaddled, red faced boy-child she had nearly died giving birth to.

 

Thick tufts of black hair sprouted from the baby’s crown and his eyes were the clearest blue that Robert had ever seen outside of the summer sky. Nearly trembling, Robert held out his large hands for his son, his expression one of the greatest wonder, as Cersei swallowed hard and granted her lord husband to hold their firstborn.

 

“Beautiful,” the King rasped in uncharacteristic awe as he took in his son and heir. Those eyes were like his, glittering with strength and the fierce desire to live. Robert had never known a love like this and in that instant, the unwilling King dedicated his life and strength to his firstborn son.

 

As the night swirled into day and the days into months and the months into years and the years into a decade, the King remained obviously favoured towards his eldest - even after this birth of his second son, golden hairedlike his mother and blue eyed like his father, or his daughter, raven haired and blue eyed like the Baratheons she most resembled, or the youngest of the four children, the third son, golden haired and green eyed like his grandfather and uncle Lannister.

 

Lyannath Baratheon, - Crown Prince, First of his Name, nicknamed the Black Lion after his first jousting tournament upon his fifteenth nameday by the little people, - was tall, slim, and by far the most handsome of any courtier in his father’s palace; but where the King remained loyal and loving to his eldest son, Lyannath had learnt loyalty towards his siblings  _and_ mother - equally.

 

Something his lord Father most disapproved of - for none could make Prince Lyannath Baratheon the Cunning, first of his name, do anything he did not wish to.

Which his Father disapproved of, most of all.


	3. In the Dark of the Night, He calls to Me

When he had been younger, Lyannath Baratheon had been drawn to the great skulls of the dragon’s in the Red Keep’s dungeons for reasons he didn’t understand. It had been a pull deep within him that he responded to; and he had spent hours down there, staring into the dark crevice-like ruts, the gaping maws and the hollow eye sockets that flickered like obsidian in the light of the torches he carried. His favourite, by far, had been Balerion; a giant of a beast, who must have been close to seventy metres long in his living form with teeth the size of bastard-swords. Teeth that remained inside the gruesome skull long after his death, and would remain so long after Lyannath’s death.

 

The oldest Prince was by the strangest of Robert and Cersei’s children. His hair was night dark and his body slimly strong beneath his finely embroidered clothing; and yet, for all his riches and responsibilities as the King’s first born, Lyannath spent much of his time hidden away in the bowels of the Keep, staring up at the bodies of the dragons long since dead. His eyes glittered beneath dark brows that drew down as he stared long and hard at the beast before him. Years had passed since the first time he had wandered lost and alone into the dungeons, he eyes round with awe as he stared at the giant fanged beasts that sat upon the sandy ground and yawned their great mouths wide; and yet, despite the time that had passed, Lyannath was still as fascinated. Drawn to linger in the tombs of the past.

 

“There you are,” a voice exclaimed in false exasperation on one such occasion when Lyannath had been nearly ten summers old. His Uncle Jaime, twin brother to his Mother, was a tall, golden haired man with gleaming green eyes that would have looked akin to Lyannath’s own emeralds had they not been scheming. Jaime had appeared at the base of the dungeon steps, and was staring at his nephew with interest, and Lyannath barely twitched beneath his gaze. “Your Mother is worried about you,” Jaime Lannister had commented dryly, regarding Lyannath curiously, “she thought you must have gotten lost.”

 

Lyannath had turned from the great beast in the crypts and his eyes like freshly polished emeralds pierced his Uncle through. “I am never lost,” the boy had whispered in a voice that sent chills up the Lannister Heir’s spine; and not for the first time did Jaime Lannister wish his sister had drowned the black haired rat the moment he had been born. Lyannath smiled as if he knew what his Uncle wished and returned his unnatural gaze to the dead beast before him. “They know where I am,” Lyannath had commented almost idly for such a young boy, his voice soft like silk over a steel blade. “They always know where I am.”

 

Jaime shivered slightly as his nephew removed his gaze from the dead dragon and turned it upon him for the second time in as many minutes. Lyannath was singularly frightening in a way nine year olds were not supposed to be. It was disturbing. “You should not be down here,” Jaime had eventually muttered, turning his face away and gripping the hilt of his sword tightly. “No one should be down here,” the Golden Knight added uneasily, scanning the long corridor warily, as if he expected bandits or assassins to leaps from the shadowy corners and skewer him alive.

 

Lyannath smiled composedly and stroked a long-fingered hand down the smooth bone of the dragons snout, marvelling at the coolness and glossiness of the dragons skull. “I was invited,” Lyannath murmured quietly, barely above a whisper and so very hard to hear; and yet, Jaime caught every word.

 

“By whom?” Lyannath’s Uncle wondered, distracted from his leeriness in favour of staring at his enigmatic nephew curiously.

 

Lyannath slipped a hand about the long canine fang of Balerion and tugged upon it gently, wondering what would happen when it came free. Each year it became looser and looser, and each year he became more and more certain that something would, indeed, happen. If only he knew what. “Balerion,” Lyannath murmured, running soft fingers along the edge of the now-blunt fang. How deadly sharp it must have been in life. Gleaming white and razor-sharp; _more than able to split a man in half through bite alone_ , Lyannath smiled and silently corrected himself, _as if Balerion’s size hadn’t been able to do so on its own_.

 

“Balerion?” Jaime had questioned, feeling as though this was something he really didn’t want to know. _There was something odd and unnatural about the boy_ , Jaime knew with a certainty that came from spending even a minute of his time with the dark haired Prince, but as strange as Lyannath was, he was equally powerful and cunning. That was an inescapable conclusion that anyone who knew Lyannath came to. He would make a great king; terrible, yes, but great.

 

Eyes like emeralds swung around to meet his Uncle’s nervous gaze and a slow smile twisted the corners of his thin lips, highlighting the terrible, and as yet unformed, beauty of his features. “Balerion,” Lyannath confirmed, his expression making the once-proud knight flee the dungeons.

 

As Jaime had turned heel and ran, Lyannath’s mocking laughter followed him; the snap of his snow-white cloak and the thud of his boot heels quite unable to mask that terrible, terrible sound. Behind him, Lyannath reached out once more and stroked the length of Balerion’s fang once more, able to feel the give of the root in its cavity and knew that soon, - _soon_ , he thought with a twisted smile, _it would come free and fall into the palm of his hand like an overripe apple_.

 

 _Oh yes_ , Lyannath smiled with thinly veiled pleasure as he turned and left the dungeons, following in his Uncle’s footsteps and leaving Balerion to his shallow slumber. _Soon enough indeed_ , he gloated while trailing his fingertips along the sandstone walls of the lower Keep.


	4. Bitter Winds Of Change

Long ago, back when the Royal heirs were but children, there was amoment in history when the Throne room was as silent as the grave, though a sharp storm brewed fiercely within that grimly still atmosphere; it all centred upon a young boy of eight name-days with bright blue eyes and a trembling hopeful smile of one who was in trouble but not knowing _why_ they were in trouble. Joffrey Baratheon, first of his name, Heir to House Lannister stood before his father and, for the first time in his very short life, _feared._

 

At the head of this storm stood the King before his Iron Throne, a man who was in a great and terrible rage that shook his body, and beside him stood the King’s Hand, Lord Jon Arryn, who gripped the King’s arm in tight restraint, praying that the King saw reason before they buried his second son; both men’s lips were white with a fury neither had felt since they had learnt what the Mad King had wrought. A fury that had once driven them both to war. Robert stared at his feet where the bodies of a cat and three kittens lay at his feet on a silk scarf like a macabre offering of tribute, his curious second son staring up at him in confusion and no small amount of fear. A sight he had never wanted to see on his sons faces; _but_ _thi_ s, he thought wildly furious and not thinking clearly, _this was unacceptable_!

 

The marble floor was slick with the muddied blood of the freshly killed; it was bright red against the slate grey of the tiling even as the felines grew steadily stiffer in the lengthening silence. Robert attempted to let out a long, slow, heavy breath and in the silence that followed, Jon Arryn dared to step backwards, releasing the King thinking him calmer and more rational now. Six foot tall and nearly twice as wide, King Robert Baratheon was a proud, vicious man, who killed his enemies, not with a sword, but with a hammer. _A blunt instrument for a blunt man_ , the Spider would tell any who would listen to him; a warning to not anger, to not go against the King’s wrath, for no matter how strong or sure a man might think he is, all know that hammers can bend steel and crack stone _._ An eight year old boy would stand no chance.

 

Behind the King and his Hand sat the Queen: slim and beautifully tragic with wide green eyes and a slightly open mouth, Cersei Lannister Baratheon trembled in fear for her newly eight year old son and favoured child. As the King raised a hand, Cersei turned her face away in shame and horror, unable to bear witness to her brutish husband punish the child she thought of as her firstborn, the _true_ Heir of the Iron Throne. The sound of flesh meeting flesh had Cersei flinching backwards into the shadows cast by the seat of her husbands throne, and for a moment, in the silence that followed, Cersei wished that the swords had not been melted together and that she could drive the biggest and cruelest through the King’s unforgiving heart.

 

In another world, where Joffrey was Heir and first-son, the blow Robert gave him would be weak and without force, though it would twist and ruin the boy’s heart until he became a demon of hunger and pride. In this, Joffrey was but the spare to a Throne already in possession of another; and Robert despised this golden haired boy for the weakling he thought him to be.

 

In this World…

 

Joffrey spun and fell from the force of his fathers open handed slap that whipped across his face and broke his jaw. The young boy landed awkwardly on his side, a shrill cry ripping free of his throat as his elbow cracked beneath his sudden weight, and the sound echoed high and cold in the long hall of the King’s throne room. Jon Arryn flinched beneath the sound that seemed to reverb for far too long in the air around them even as Cersei let out a low cry of her own in horror and shock, half-standing before catching herself and reseating her suddenly freezing body. The King stood cold and unforgiving above his second son, meeting those wide, pained blue eyes with his own sharp blue gaze, curling his lip in complete and utter disgust.

 

“Leave,” Robert ordered harshly; and his eyes, so like his second borns, were narrowed in hard hatred. Unable to see anything but loathed Lannister scum where his son lay in a snivelling heap at his feet. “Before I make you.”

 

Joffrey trembled beneath the weight of his fathers gaze and staggered to his feet, turning towards his mother for guidance but finding nothing but a turned face and an expression of deep shame but no remorse. Life among Royalty had taught Cersei to look after herself first. In another life, when Joffrey had been Heir, she would have gathered up her fallen son and bundled him away to soothe his hurts and the bruises on his soul; but that was not this world and Cersei remained where she was. Even the Queen knew that Joffrey was naught but the second son, for all that she wished it otherwise. “Mother?” He whispered softly through his broken jaw, brave in the face of his pain and in spite the tremors his eight year old body was wracked with; and the fear and tears that made his voice wobble so uncertainly in the face of his mothers refusal to acknowledge him made all but Robert’s hearts clench in sympathy. Jon Arryn, who had seen everything and stood by Robert all these years, turned his face away, unable to stomach the look on the young Prince’s face but equally unwilling to stay Robert’s punishment.

 

As the moment dragged out, Cersei shut her eyes in pain, squeezing them tight and controlling herself against the dark sorrow that arose at the sound of her close-to-tears child and told herself that she would make it up to the boy. Later, when the King was deep in his cups and unlikely to find out about her mercy; as her own mother had done when her own father had raged at her or Jaime’s childhood indiscretions. “Leave, Joffrey,” she whispered; her words were cold and hard as she fought against the urge to go to her son and hug him tightly, to pretend for a moment that she could keep him safe from harm in spite of the world he’d been born into.

 

Her last word had Joffrey stumbling backwards, fleeing the throne room and not looking back: “Go.”

 

Joffrey staggered out from under the silent stares of the full courtroom, hugging his arms to his chest while the pain of his broken bones was outweighed by the dismissiveness shown to him by his parents, people who he loved beyond all reason. People who now sent him away broken and bleeding and trying not to cry. Far behind, upon the throne’s dais, the Hand watched the broken boy stumble from the throne room and knew that a grave mistake had been made this day, but was quite unable to think of a way to fix it.None dared tell Robert that he was wrong when the King got like this, though perhaps this would happen less if they did.

 

It was to this picture that eleven year old Lyannath Baratheon stepped in as he slipped from the corridor that led to the dungeons having heard the commotion of the yelling and then the terrible aching silence that followed. Even Lyannath feared their father when he got into one of his rages, and now, as he slipped into the Keep proper, Lyannath was greeted by a pitiful sight. His eldest sibling, though younger than he, was curled up around an arm that stuck out at an odd angle with his lower jaw hanging wonkily beneath his face and the entire left side of his face was black and purple. Staring at Joffrey’s state, Lyannath was unsurprised by thetears that streamed down the boys pale face and the muffled, hiccoughing sobs that shook his young body. Lyannath stood uncertainly above the boy, having had as little contact with Joffrey as their Father kept him occupied in the bid to estrange his heir and those he considered unworthy of his name; and it took the older boy a moment of hesitation before remembering, as one does eventually, what his mother would do in situations where the youngest members of the Royal Baratheon clan hurt themselves. Lyannath knelt at Joffrey’s side, his presence unnoticed until that point by the younger boy, and drew his brother into a loose yet comforting hug, mindful of the obviously broken bones.

 

“Sweet brother,” Lyannath breathed gently, trying his best to mimic the soft tones of their mother when she soothed their hurts away with gentle touches and even gentler words, stroking a long-fingered hand through Joffrey’s soft golden hair. “What happened to you?”

 

Joffrey trembled in his brothers arms, his tears starting anew, and he broke down into harsh sobs. “Fa-fath-father hit m-m-me-e!” Joffrey wailed at the top of his eight year old lungs, sounding more heartbroken for the fact of their father’s hatred than the pain his shattered bones, “I-I di-didn’t mea-mean-n to-o!”

 

“Didn’t mean to what, Joff?” Lyannath asked, only mildly curious, because nearly anything could have caused Robert Baratheon to hurt his brother like this. Lyannath having been present for more than a few of his drunken ramblings and rantings about Lannister treacheries. It was Joffrey’s poor luck to be born with hair of Lannister gold and not Baratheon black.

 

“Hu-urt the-the ca-at-t,” Joffrey sobbed into his older brothers soft leather jerkin. Snots and tears streaking the dark green leather and running rivulets into Lyannath’s lap as the older boy tugged the younger further into his arms. “I k-kill-ed her.”

 

Lyannath blinked almost lazily, indifferent to his brothers apparently psychotic tendencies, knowing that curiosity, not cruelty, had motivated the boy. Lyannath had done something similar when he was eight years old himself; though he’d been better at hiding the results of his curiosity than Joffrey apparently had been. Joffrey had poor impulse control, all of the Lannister’s did in Lyannath’s lofty eleven year old opinion (influenced by his father and his fathers advisory council as it was); and Joffrey spent far too much time in his Mother and Uncle’s presence to be anything _but_ a Lannister. “You know that was not a smart thing to do, Joff,” Lyannath chided the younger boy, aware of his hypocrisy even as he carefully scooped the other, smaller boy up and encouraged the eight year old to wrap his legs about Lyannath’s waist. Lyannath straighter up cautiously, bracing one hand against the wall beside them in order not to jostle Joffrey unnecessarily. Lyannath didn’t know much about children in general, but he knew a lot about the keep where’d they’d both grown up and while visiting a healer might have been wiser, Lyannath was only eleven and not used to making decisions about people’s wellbeing beyond ensuring that wars weren’t started among the little people by the Great Houses. “Come on, baby brother,” Lyannath murmured, feeling brotherly with Joffrey in his arms, and turned back the way he had come. “I have something to show you.”

 

Joffrey, who was in far too much pain, both emotional and physical, to complain about the direction they were taking, made no sound bar for the occasional sniff and laid his head on Lyannath’s shoulder. His footing even and sure, Lyannath carried the younger boy deep into the bowels of the Keep; downwards to where the dragons lay. The walls grew rougher and less polished, while the floor became steadily dustier and unclean but for the footprints made by the eldest Prince in his regular treks down to where Balerion’s skull rested against the wall and awaited their presence, the white bone flickering orange in the torch light. The younger boy stared dazedly up at the yawning, cavernous maw that was Balerion’s skull and shivered into Lyannath’s tight embrace. The King loathed this part of the Keep and avoided as much as possible, making it the perfect safe haven for his son and Heir when Lyannath was shirking his duties as Prince.

 

“Joffrey, Prince of House Baratheon,” Lyannath stated with gravity as he slid the younger boy down from his waist and onto the sandy floor beside him. “Meet Balerion, the Black Dread, last of the truly great dragons.”

 

Joffrey was too well brought up to even consider mocking his older brother for his little affectations, and bowed deeply to the dead beast before him. “A pleasure,” the young boy muttered in a trembling voice, his distraction numbing the pain ins bones, though he still felt light headed and nauseous.

 

Lyannath smiled at the sight and took his brothers broken arm gently in his hands and pressed the palm of Joffrey’s hand to the smooth white bone of the dragons skull, just below where Belerion’s great eye would have once rested. “Ask him for help, Joff,” Lyannath urged softly, his emerald eyes gleaming sharply in the flickering torchlight and enrapturing his younger brother. “Do not be afraid.”

 

Joffrey trembled but did as he was told. “Balerion the Black Dread, please,” the boy whispered in a shaking high pitched voice, his sapphire gaze shining with fear and pain. “Help me. Please,” Joffrey found himself begging, his pain great and his pride absent in loss.

 

Joffrey didn’t know what he was to expect, but the white hot painthat followed was not what he was hoping for. It surged from his arm, down through his shoulders and chest, up through his neck and jaw and down through his legs and feet. It was so sudden and violent that Joffrey tore his arm from his brothers hands and fell to his hands and knees, catching himself on the rough sandy floor.

 

It took a long moment before Joffrey realised that he was resting his full weight on _both_ arms. That he felt nothing but numbness. Blessed numbness and normality. It was as though the last hour never happened.

 

Joffrey blinked in surprise and a smile overtook his slightly pointed features. _Blessed numbness_ , he thought quietly to himself; _he no longer hurt and everything was blessedly numb once more_. “You healed me,” Joffrey breathed, staring in shock up at his brother as his curious fingers ran along his elbow joint and then along the once-broken side of his jaw. “How?”

 

Lyannath smiled enigmatically and shrugged. “What makes you think I did the healing? Did you not ask Balerion for aid?” Lyannath’s smile turned cruel, “why would the Black Dread not gift a true son of our House the aid he asks for, when the Lannister’s have always been loyal to the Iron Throne?”

 

With that startling pronouncement, Lyannath turned on his heel and strode back up the stairs, undoubtedly to attend the many lessons he had evaded this week alone. Behind him, Joffrey stared at the great skull of the dragon Balerion and wondered why his brother would not take responsibility for the magic he had clearly just performed. It wouldn’t be until months later that Joffrey would learn that magic was seen as inherently evil and bad luck by all of Westeros; and it would be then that the secondborn Prince would realise that his brother didn’t _have_ to reveal himself to his younger brother. That he could have taken his brother to a healer and called his duty done; and yet, he hadn’t.

 

It all left Joffrey with a single question: _why?_


	5. Musing's of a Sharp Eyed Lion

_Fifteen name days old already_ , Cersei thought as she watched her eldest son knee his courser through the thronging crowd of Casterly Rock's lower city, and at Lyannath's side rode his brother and confidant astride a much larger destrier. Both boys were handsome, she noted almost idly, their features as finely crafted as the finest sculptures from Essos, across the narrow sea. With eyes of emerald and sapphire and sternly compassionate faces, Cersei wished she could lay claim to their stately carriage and the lazy tilt of their heads as they regarded the small folk from the height of their chargers, but she could not. Their shoulders were broad beneath the polished leather armour they both wore and their hands were steady upon the reins. Lyannath had been born for the saddle, Robert often claimed, the story of the oldest prince taming the untameable stallion of the royal stables having become legend over the past seven years, growing greater with each retelling. That the Prince refused to ride any horse but the black courser only added to the Prince's mystique. Lyannath only ever wore harsh, dark colours; black slashed with lighter navy blues, picked with glints of gold embroidery. The Black Prince, King's Landing called him, reverence within their soft tones. Joffrey, by comparison, was seen to be the gentler, genteeler of the pair; favouring reds and golds that complimented his colouring, Joffrey was the fashionable Prince and very handsome at only thirteen name-days. 

 

The punishment of Joffrey by the King during his eighth year, had spelt the end of any and all discourse between the Second Prince and his Father; and Cersei by extension. Joffrey was golden haired and sapphire eyed with a slim, strong body and the self-same long-fingered hands that belonged to his older, broader brother; and yet, for all the differences in their colouring and the two years between them, Joffrey and Lyannath could almost be as twins, Cersei admitted within the silent depths of her mind. Lyannath was as cold and calculating man as Joffrey was growing to be, albeit with piercing emerald eyes and an unforgiving stare; and it was rare the day where Lyannath or Joffrey spent time apart and all of the Royal Court had taken to checking first with either brother, if they sought the other's presence. Cersei oft wondered how her eldest would take it when Joffrey, who was the Heir of Casterly Rock, left King's Landing for Cersei's own father's lands. Watching the pair far ahead of her carriage, Cersei felt a moments bitterness as she caught the rays of the sun reflecting off Joffrey's golden crown. A part of her, hidden deep and silent thought it the greatest tragedy that Joffrey, who should have been sired by the loins of her own twin and lover's seed, rather than her Lord Husband’s seed. Indeed, of all her children, only Tommen was of her and Jaime; even Myrcella had been sired by Robert, to Cersei’s disgust, for she had so dearly wished for a daughter. Though Myrcella, it seemed, took more after her brothers than her parents: Cersei had no idea how that had come to be, but, glancing sideways to look at the haughty expression Myrcella wore as she practiced her needlepoint beside her, it was assuredly so. 

 

The two oldest Princes were as skilled with a blade as the other and yet both still made the self-same mistakes each and every time, driving the Maester’s mad with frustration and disappointment; Jaime had suggested that it was all deliberate, that the duo were holding back, though for what purpose, Cersei couldn't fathom. For all that Joffrey, who was as impetuous as Lyannath was slyly calculating: neither prince aggravated the other in a way as to impede their relationship as the other’s balancer and sole confidant. And while Lyannath was the clear leader of the pair, this by no means made Joffrey the follower or submissive in their relationship. Joffrey was just as likely as to order Lyannath about as Lyannath was to command Joffrey; and to be perfectly honest, Cersei wasn’t entirely sure how the pair managed it, but their relationship was considerably healthier than hers and Jaime’s had even been. Cersei turned her gaze away from the Princes far ahead to lay eyes upon her brother who rode nobly at the side of her carriage, pale green eyes gleaming intelligently from beneath the lip of his helm. It had been Jaime who had been the first to notice the unnaturalness that was within the oldest Prince, and Cersei knew her twin had been avoiding Lyannath for the past decade if he could manage it; just as Lyannath took deep pleasure in appearing at Jaime's elbow, dark green eyes seemingly knowing just how fearful he made his Uncle. That Jaime had begun to avoid Joffrey not long after the boys eighth name-day was not lost on Cersei either. When pressed upon the topic, Jaime would shake his head, eyes guarded and lips white with the pressure of keeping them pressed together. It was immensely frustrating, but there was aught Cersei could do. 

 

The carriage rocked from side to side as it rolled through the crowded streets of Casterly Rock, wheels catching every divot and furrow in the poorly maintained roads, and Lyannath kicked one of the small folk that dared slip too close to his brothers side, a possessive cast slipping over his face as he did so. Behind them and her face hidden behind gossamer curtains of silk, Cersei wondered at the smile that Joffrey wore upon his thin lips and directed towards his brother. Somehow, Cersei believed that she would never understand the relationship between her eldest sons; and as Joffrey reared his horse in response to an attempt by a small person to touch Lyannath’s boot, she found herself surprisingly okay with that fact, because she knew that they would always be there for each other. Oh certainly, Cersei found herself jealous for missing the Joffrey that had slipped into her rooms late at night, begging for stories and sweets; but this Joffrey, Cersei knew, was stronger for her loss. Besides, Tommen still clung to her, five name days old and still but a toddler in a lot of ways.

 

Now, if only Robert would see what she did, she thought, shooting a darkly disgusted glance at her giant of a husbands rounded back as he shouted for more wine, despite being on the doorstep of the Lannister estate, the day when her Lord Husband died could not come soon enough. Joffrey and Lyannath both curled their lips at the sight and dismounted their chargers as they pulled up to the front doors of Casterly Keep, their grandfather and Lord of Casterly Rock awaiting them at the top of the steps, their dwarfed Uncle at his side. Lyannath dropped back to the door of the carriage and handed his mother out, meeting her eyes briefly before she dropped them in an almost submissive gesture. Lyannath nearly smirked in response, few could meet his gaze without feeling nervous and thoroughly examined in a most unpleasant manner.

 

“Tommen, dear brother,” Lyannath chided softly, touching his youngest brothers shoulder and waking the five year old boy from his slumber. “We’ve arrived.” Myrcella smiled at her eldest brother as she accepted his help in sliding from the carriage, while Tommen blinked sleepily and held out his arms to be picked up. “Foolish boy,” Lyannath teased softly, casting a quick look about the courtyard and pulling the boy from the carriage and setting him down at his side. “Quickly now, our Lord Grandfather will not appreciate being kept waiting.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry, sweet brother,” Joffrey drawled lazily as he appeared at Lyannath side and took Tommen's hand from Lyannath's, a sardonic smirk curling his lip as he stared up the front steps and watched the King be greeted by the disgusted Lord of Casterly Rock. “It appears that our Lord Grandfather is being given the royal treatment.”

 

Lyannath barked a hollow laugh, drawing the gaze of their Uncle Jaime with the cruel sound, the knight’s eyes, so like Tommen’s in colouring, narrowed at the sight of the humourless black Prince laughing in public. “Now, now, dear brother,” Lyannath chided mockingly as he headed the royal brood and led his siblings through the crowd that had gathered to watch the King’s salutations of their Lord and master, Tywin Lannister. “You mustn’t say such things about grandfather,” Lyannath’s smile twisted cruelly, an expression mimicked on Joffrey’s own face as his brother, once again, read his mind with ease of long years of practice. “Tywin Lannister rolls over for no man or beast.”

 

“ _‘Ours is the Fury_ ’,” Myrcella quoted, a sly smile on her youthful face. Just as cunning as her brothers, Myrcella was often overlooked because of her womanly body that was in the first flush of development at nine years old.

 

Joffrey linked his arm with his sister's and pressed a lazy kiss to her hand, amused despite himself. “Quite so, my darling sister,” he agreed with all the assurance of one who knows their place in the world. As second son to Robert and Cersei Baratheon, Joffrey would be Lord of Casterly Rock one day and Hand to the King, his brother, Lyannath Baratheon, the First of His Name. Lyannath scooped toddling Tommen up into his arms, having seen how the much younger boy was struggling to keep up with his older siblings. Their mother had swept ahead, disinterested in coddling, as she greeted her father with an icily cool expression that did nothing to his her disgust with Tyrion standing at the Lannister's side. Joffrey and Myrcella fell into step with Lyannath, quietly discussing lace and velvet in low tones as their brother led them up the stairs to greet their Grandfather. 

 

Behind the quietly conversing siblings, Jaime Lannister wondered at the shocking ease that all four children displayed as they stared over the gathering of adults. Lyannath, he supposed, could be explained as the eldest son of the King. The dark Prince had been well educated in states-craft and had taken to the Maester’s learnings like a fish took to water. The boy was a born statesman who very rarely took ‘no’ as the final answer. While Joffrey drew confidence in knowing that he would be a Lord and the second most powerful figure in his brothers Kingdom. Joffrey would stand in the shadow of the Iron Throne and be the new King’s closest confidant and advisor. Tommen and Myrcella, however, had no such assurance. Tommen was the youngest son. Lyannath the Heir and Joffrey the spare; leaving little for Tommen to step into. Despite this, Tommen had taken to his lessons like a bird took to flying; slightly awkwardly at first but with growing confidence as his elder brother encouraged him, regarding him with all the confidence of one who has done this all before and knows that while difficult, it is worth it. Tommen had the makings of a great soldier and even greater leader; but then, Jaime knew that even if Tommen never made it past squiredom, he would always be a Prince.

 

Myrcella, on the other hand, would likely be married off to a Prince of Dorne to the South of Westeros; and as an elder son and owner of his own fate, Jaime could not comprehend how the vivacious daughter of Cersei was okay with that fact. Hell, even Cersei had rebelled against their father at the thought of marrying Robert Baratheon at first. _At least until Tywin Lannister had taught her the error of her ways_ , Jaime was quick to acknowledge; and yet, none of this had happened with Myrcella. The girl was apparently more than comfortable with being someone’s brood mare and trophy wife, and in that, Jaime was at a loss to see his sister in a girl that otherwise resembled the Queen so greatly.

 

Lyannath watched the King totter off, deep in his cups, leaving a greatly offended Lord behind him. A Lord that Robert Baratheon hardly respected at all, for all that he owed the good state of his kingdom to the man. The eldest of the Baratheon children stepped forth quickly and bowed smoothly in respectful salutation of his Grandfather, smiling slightly at the man’s suddenly bemused expression. “Forgive the King, my Lord Grandfather,” Lyannath murmured quickly with a sly glance at his fathers back. “It would appear that his good manners became lost somewhere between here and the Twins.”

 

Tywin blinked slowly, admittedly confused by his grandson’s smooth behaviour when even his children had never read him so well. “It is quite alright, my Prince,” Tywin accepted the apology for what it was, an excuse that lay blame squarely at the feet of the King. “Your presence was expected.”

 

Lyannath nodded his head in grave understanding and twisted on the balls of his feet slightly, revealing his siblings behind him. “My Lord Tywin,” he began swiftly, knowing his Grandfathers penchant for swift business. “May I present Joffrey Baratheon, Heir to Casterly Rock and second Prince of House Baratheon," and Lyannath jogged his arms making Tommen mewl childishly as the youngest child struggled to remain awake. "This is Tommen Baratheon, third Prince of House Baratheon; and the lady at my brother's side is the lovely Myrcella, first Princess of House Baratheon,” Lyannath brushed a long-fingered hand over Tommen's back, a smile turning the corners of his lips upwards in distinct amusement. "Forgive Tommen's insouciance, my Lord, he is but newly awakened; we made headway well before Dawn's light."

 

 

“Welcome to Casterly Rock, my Lords and Lady,” Tywin greeted them with stately magnificence and he dropped a hesitant hand to his dwarfed sons shoulder with a slight sneer, “my youngest son, Tyrion Lannister,” was the half-hearted introduction.

 

Myrcella curtseyed even as Joffrey and Lyannath each bowed in greeting of the ugly little man, no hesitation or mocking in their movements that either Tyrion and Tywin could see; and the dwarf relaxed his shoulders at the sight, wondering how his sister could raise such perfectly mannered children. Tommen might not have bowed, but Tyrion had a soft spot for children and the boy was blinking blearily at the world around him, still so small to be making such a long journey.

 

“Always an honour to meet the Princes and Princess,” Tyrion stated honestly, shocking the hell out his father at the favour he gave them. “Come, my niece and nephews, I will show you to your rooms and you must tell me all about yourselves.”

 

Lyannath declined quietly while gesturing for his siblings to continue onwards with a slight smile. “Perhaps later, dear Uncle,” Lyannath stated reservedly, appearing twice as old as his years already lived. “I have need of my Lord Grandfathers time.”

 

Joffrey reached out, taking Tommen from his older brother's arms with a smile. "In a while," he murmured to Lyannath quietly, then he relinked his and Myrcella's arms and turned to Tyrion with a faint smile upon his thin lips. "Uncle?" Joffrey prompted. Tyrion startled but led the youngest of the Royal brood into Casterly Rock, beginning his tour with a mindlessness that spoke of rote learning. Joffrey made sure to pay close attention, after all, this would be his one day and it wouldn't do to be one of those Lords that knew nothing of the world around him.

 

Tywin blinked in mild surprise, off kilter by Lyannath seeking him out but bade his grandson to follow him, nodding in greeting at his armour clad son that stood silently behind Lyannath. As the old Lord and the youthful Prince strode inside, looking like mirror images of the other despite the gap between their years, Jaime shared a long look with Cersei who had appeared once more on the steps that lead into the keep, and Jaime wondered at what could motivate the eldest Prince to seek out counsel with his Father: Tywin was a man well known for his cunning brutality and you did not tangle with him lightly.

 

Following behind Tyrion, who was expounding on a tapestry that detailed the early history of the Lannister name, Myrcella turned to Joffrey in confusion and frowned at the older boy, “why is Lyath disturbing grandfather?” She asked, "I thought we were just visiting?"

 

Joffrey shot the girl a long look of consideration before a cruel smirk twisting his lips in amusement, “you know why, Mercy,” he chided her teasingly as he tapped her nose gently. Joffrey then turned to his twisted little uncle and raised a brow, “well, dear Uncle, while I appreciate the history lesson I believe you preferably wished to start something of an inquisition regarding everything you have missed since our births?”

 

Tyrion blinked at the words that... were less mocking than they could have been. It took but a moment longer before Tyrion realised that the words had been aimed at Joffrey himself rather than at Tyrion. _Which was quite remarkable_ , the dwarf thought to himself, _because he did have wonder at Joffrey’s ability to have a sense of humour when his siblings, Cersei and Jaime, were such cold fish_. “Of course,” Tyrion recovered admirably, returning to his task of guiding the trio of golden haired siblings through the halls towards the wing where they would reside for their stay. “This way, dear children; now tell me, have you read...”

 

Behind the retreating children and Tyrion, who they had been following at a discrete distance, eavesdropping as they did so, Jaime and Cersei shared yet another long look of confusion, wondering just where Cersei went wrong in raising the four children of House Baratheon. They certainly acted like no Lannister’s that Jaime and Cersei knew of; but then, as Tywin would tell them, disgust tainting his high bred tones, neither Jaime nor Cersei acted like true Lannister’s either. Of all his children, Tywin was the most horrified to note that Tyrion was by far the truest of his children to the Lannister Ideal; and Tyrion was inappropriate as an Heir for his stature alone. 

 

Although, Tywin considered as he stood behind his desk and stared at the eldest Prince, Tywin was more than willing to admit that Lyannath Baratheon, despite his last name, was more than Lannister enough for him to follow. Which was certainly not something that Tywin had ever considered and for the first time in his life, Tywin shelved, completely and without reservation, his briefly held desires to sit upon the Iron Throne. There would be a Lion on the Throne, this he now knew; and as the young Prince left his study, Tywin considered the knowledge given to him without strings attached by his grandson and the request that Lyannath had asked of him. _A lion in stags clothing_ , Tywin thought to himself as he leaned back into his carved oak chair, _that was what Lyannath was: a lion in stags clothing_. A hungry look stole across his features as the Lord of Casterly Rock considered the implications of Lyannath’s request; this could very well save the kingdom from civil war, though Tywin also considered that it would shore up Lyannath's grip on the Iron Throne, when it came time for him to sit upon it. Plans within plans, Tywin mused, there would surely be more, this was but the tip of the spear and Tywin gladly looked forwards to knowing what more would come from this; where Lyannath would take them from here.

 

 _How utterly remarkable,_  and Tywin smiled at the thought, pleased beyond measure.  _How utterly remarkable_.


	6. The Beginning of it All

The tolling of the great bell rang out over the cityscape and Lyannath smiled down at the chanting forms of the Priests and Priestesses of the Seven even as they circled the dead body of the Hand of the King. Jon Arryn was dead: his withered body faded in its strength and vitality; and soon a new Hand would be named. That is, once the King had ceased his mourning and wailing like an old woman who's child had been cut down before her. Hidden within the shadows of the alcoved hall, Lyannath observed his Mother’s pale face, her fear and confusion apparent by this turn of events even as relief stole across her countenance at his Uncle Jaime’s appearance at her side.

 

The scuff of a boot on stone was all the physical warning he receivedof Joffrey’s arrival beside him. Lyannath turned to meet his brothers sapphire gaze and he smiled in cold greeting. “Brother,” he murmured, shifting his weight sideways so as to include his brother into the alcove that he was hidden in.

 

“Lyannath,” Joffrey breathed, pressing their shoulders together briefly, his hero worship undimmed despite being sixteen name days old. “You move swiftly, brother,” the younger man commented, caressing the hilt of his sword in silent comfort; their little family of four had been rocked by the Hands delving into old secrets.

 

Lyannath smiled coldly, his expression far removed of the worry that plagued his brother. “He knew,” the dark Prince spoke quietly, eyes watching his mother and Uncle carefully. “He would have spoken out,” Lyannath added almost lazily, “he knew little of restraint. Too honest and open to be allowed to continue. I will not have Tommen threatened.”

 

Joffrey stilled at his brothers reasoning, his sapphire gaze narrowing at the sight of his mother and father-uncle sharing soft words over a dead mans body. “Jon Arryn knew of Tommen’s parentage,” Joffrey murmured almost too quietly to be heard, soft fury suffusing his words. The golden Prince cut a glance in his brothers direction and smiled cruelly, “I’m glad for your intervention,” he growled beneath his breath.

 

Lyannath tilted his head in amusement. “Your gratitude is unnecessary, dear brother,” the dark haired Prince spoke softly as he crossed his arms and watched the fair haired Lannister twins slip from the temple. “I protect my own, particularly as he was making unwise claiming’s of your own parentage.”

 

“My what?” Joffrey hissed like a cat who’s fur had been brushed the wrong way.

 

Lyannath curled his lip, “apparently he thought that your fair hair was anything but legitimate. Memory of your childhood crown of brown curls was apparently ignored.”

 

Joffrey’s lips twisted in feral rage at Arryn’s false claims; and once he had calmed once more, his eyes landed in savage glee upon Jon Arryn’s body below them. “How did it happen?”

 

“He was burned alive from the inside, according to the Priest,” Lyannath drawled lazily as he straightened and lazily led his brother from the temple. “It’s a mystery to us all, but apparently our Kingly Father seeks retribution against anyone labelled Targaryen by their neighbour.”

 

Joffrey understood the implications hidden within that airy statement and he shivered at the thought of his brother being hunted down like a dog for the slaughter of a man who threatened them both. Lyannath was by far the most adept at playing the Game of Houses, and his political manoeuvres were so twisted and subtle that few saw them coming before they had been acted upon. Already Lyannath had secured his place by discrediting Stannis and Renly Baratheon as Heir claimants to the Iron Throne by the age of sixteen; and had set Tommen, who at the time had been barely seven, up to be the next Lord of the Stormlands once Stannis was dead. Even though few saw the manoeuvre for what it was, Tyrion had actually bowed to his older brother in awe, claiming him, quite without his usual mockery, to be the King of Cunning and Politics. Lyannath had slipped Tommen a sweet and a wink for Tommen's cheek; Joffrey knew that any other but Tommen would have been sent spinning with an iron hard blow. Lyannath's pride was only held in check by his greater sense of duty to those around him. Well, to those he considered his, Joffrey tilted his head in minor correction.

 

“Then I pray that the killer is never found,” Joffrey muttered darkly, shooting a scathing look down the empty corridor knowing full well that the walls held ears and eyes for anyone of interest. “Arryn was a disturbing individual to say the least.”

 

Lyannath paused mid-step just long enough for it to be noticeable. “He had better not have been making passes at Mercy again,” the dark haired Prince spoke coldly, his voice like frigid winter winds and his eyes like slits.

 

Joffrey knew that their conversation, false as it was, would discredit the former Hand in a way that would get back to the King and Queen and buffer the two Princes from discovery. “She has not said so _to me_ ,” Joffrey said in a manner that implied that he had overheard a private conversation between confidants and Lyannath bared white teeth in fake fury that appeared all too real. “But then,” and here Joffrey smiled sardonically as they rounded the corner and into the Keep Proper, “Myrcella rarely speaks of those who give her trouble for fear of your reaction, my dear brother.”

 

Lyannath tilted his head towards Joffrey, pinning the younger man with his emerald gaze. “But you would tell me if she had mentioned it to you, yes?”

 

“I have far too much self-preservation to ever lie to you, Lyannath,” Joffrey drawled with shocking honesty. “I know what you are capable of and I have no wish to observe it in a more personal manner.”

 

Oh yes, Joffrey thought with a remarkable likeness to his usual boredom, Lyannath’s ability with magic was frightening enough that Joffrey would never, ever challenge his brother for anything. Jon Arryn’s burning from the inside out was barely the tip of that particular iceberg. Joffrey had little inclination to learn just how Lyannath had made that courtiers son scream so loudly that blood had gushed from his ruined throat without laying a single finger on the boy but for the original blow that brought the squire to his knees.It had given the usually sadistic golden haired Prince nightmares for months afterwards. Myrcella had actually avoided Lyannath for close to two months, such had been her shock at his defence on her behalf. On a plus side, not a single man or boy had harassed their sister since; but then, the screams had been so loud that the King, on the other side of the Keep, had heard them in the midst of fucking his loudest whore. The sight of a composed Lyannath standing over the whimpering, blubbering, bloody mess of a courtiers son had fuelled the Keep gossip for years. That the boy had admitted that Lyannath had struck him but once had added to the furore as everyone tried to guess just how he had managed it. 

 

And Lyannath wasn’t telling...


	7. A Raven in the Night

Darkness brewed on the horizon and emerald eyes gleamed beneath dark brows, watching the blackly boiling clouds even as a shape born upon heavily flapping wings was birthed from the gloom. A raven.  Aside from the rumbling of thunder still distant, silence lay heavy on land; there was a prickling of his skin and a pressure upon his flesh that spoke of more than the thunderstorm that threatened to break and lash Kings Landing to ruin. Lyannath breathed in deeply, able to scent the tang of rainwater beneath the easterly wind that blew the stench of rotting fish, piss and vomit strewn sickness over the Keep from the City far below. Something wicked this way came. 

 

The raven back-winged onto the ledge in a flurry of feathers and held out its leg where a small scroll had been attached with a thin piece of white string. Lyannath’s lips thinned as he read the message contained within. _Poor news indeed_ , he thought to himself, flicking his fingers to dismiss the bird to its nest. Thunder growled once more, closer again than before, and Lyannath considered his next move with gravity. It would not do well to make a mistake this close to the fruition of his other plans. Certainly, the timing was inconvenient; but Jorah would assuredly ask the Spider for more than just advice, would ask for reassurance, would ask for _direction_. The dark Prince turned on his heel and made his way to the Maester’s desk, removing a slip of paper and jotting down a quick note in a barely legible script in a language that most had forgotten.

 

Lyannath let out a shrill whistle, calling yet another raven to his side, larger than the first, and knotted the message at the birds side. “To the Dragonstone, my sweet,” he whispered softly, cunning green eyes landing on the hulking outcrop of rock in the middle of the bay. There a ship awaited on the far side with a man upon its deck with a task to complete at Lyannath’s behest. It was early, but things had been well prepared. The man carried a letter addressed to one of two people; the destination of said letter was up to the man’s discretion. To whomever would benefit Lyannath best, but of course he had his hopes and expectations; they both knew this.

 

Lyannath watched the bird wing its way east until it disappeared from view and Lyannath turned to the spot where his note had been written, amused by the markings left behind that showed the message all too clearly. With a mocking smile upon his lips, Lyannath ran a long index finger along the message, obscuring it further and twisting the words left behind so that the writing became scrambled and confusing. The poor spider would be left with a romantic note to a woman and nothing in the slightest to report upon. Lyannath almost considered wiping it away completely, before stilling his movements and leaving it behind. No, best to allow Varys to have something to read, there was no sense in removing the message in its entirety. Let the spider spin his failing webs; Lyannath had uses for him yet.

 

His decision made, Lyannath bounded down the tower stairs, booted feet thudding down the stone steps loudly, unconcerned with being tracked by the many eyes and ears that followed him through the Keep proper. The corridors of the Red Keep were filled with guttering torches and a chill wind bit and nipped at any exposed part of the body, leaving little doubt that, as the Starks would say, Winter was coming.

 

Striding through the long hallways, Lyannath’s lips twisted into a cruel smile; _Hear Me Roar_ , he mocked silently as he swept into the Entrance Hall, the heavy tapestries swaying slightly upon their heavy iron hooks. His Uncle Jaime stood guarding the enormous oak doors of the Throne Room, his golden hair shining in the subdued light of the flickering torches. At Jaime’s side stood a younger man with red-gold hair, _another Lannister_ , Lyannath presumed with some amusement. How predictable of his father, The King loathed the Lannister’s and their supposed treachery and yet he surrounded himself with Lion’s for he couldn’t trust his fellow Stags.

 

 _Our’s Is The Fury_ _indeed_ , Lyannath sneered slightly, shoving the oak doors open without acknowledging his cousin and Uncle beyond the smallest of nods. Jaime wondered at his nephews blatant disgust and without thought, followed the young man into the throne room, dearly hoping that he wouldn’t be forced to execute the boy for treason. The dark Prince stopped at the foot of the dais and bowed just low enough to be respectful, his eyes never leaving his fathers face in a blatant challenge.

 

Cersei shivered at the sight of those cold emerald eyes and thanked the Seven that Robert was far too drunk to pick up on his sons disrespect. The boy was becoming more and more dangerous as the days slipped by. He knew far too much, but was beloved and powerful enough that none dared move against him. Cersei’s peridot gaze flicked to meet her brothers eyes and Jaime smiled ever so slightly and shook his head in reassurance, allowing the Queen to settle back and relax against the back of her smaller, wooden throne at the side of her husbands Iron Throne.

 

To the side of the King, Petyr Baelish smirked at the sight of the dark Prince’s disrespect and the way that the King missed everything to do with his eldest child. Lyannath was tall, of a height with his father and beautifully strong with hair like night ravens wings and eyes of polished emeralds. Not only was the young Prince sought after for his power and status, but for his almost ethereal beauty that not even Ser Loras of the Flowers could claim to. That Lyannath was more than able to control Prince Joffrey made him a blessing for both Varys and Petyr both; neither would survive the Queen’s wrath should they ever make a complaint about her favoured second son and Joffrey did so love to make a mess of things. That Lyannath encouraged such tendencies away from the drapes and tapestries was... less a blessing and more about practicality. Far better to harness Joffrey's love for sadism and carnage than to let it run free with indolent regard.

 

“News from the East, your Grace,” Lyannath drawled lazily, his eyes narrowing in cold humour and Petyr girded himself for a bombshell about to be loosed.

 

The King shifted upon his uncomfortable throne and met the piercing gaze of his Heir, disinterest flowing from his bloated figure. “Speak, boy,” Robert commanded roughly, “and be quick about it.”

 

Lyannath smiled and bowed his head in mock respect but did as he was bade in a voice like silk covered steel, a hand resting on the hilt of his hand-and-a-half bastard blade. “The disgraced Lord of Bear Island reports that he has made contact with a boy upon the mainland,” Lyannath said coolly, shooting a warning look at his mother to prepare her for the worst and to keep her sharp edged tongue inside her mouth.

 

“What interest have I in boys?” Robert sneered, snatching his wine cup from the table at the side of his throne and drinking deeply from its depths. “That is Renly’s proclivity, not mine!”

 

The youngest Baratheon son stiffened in silent fury but any retort he might have made was cut off by Lyannath’s cool voice: “even boy’s with white blonde hair and purple eyes, my Lord King?”

 

Silence rang out in the wake of Lyannath's proclamation.

 

Robert’s wine cup fell from his nerveless fingers and skittering along the floor to land at his eldest sons feet. Lyannath regarded the vessel disinterestedly for a beat before returning his gaze to his fathers steadily purpling face and watched as a thick vein throbbed dangerously in his temple. Varys, who had just entered the throne room from behind the King, took one look at the coldly amused expression that Lyannath wore, the nervous aspects of the Lannister born twins and Petyr Baelish, who was edging his way backwards away from the obviously furious King before Varys turned about-face and fled the hall unseen by the blinded King.

 

“You,” the King warned his Heir thickly through a tongue made heavy with wine and rage, “had better not be lying to me, boy.”

 

Lyannath caressed the hilt of his sword and smirked mockingly at his father, watching the older man struggle to his feet in silent disgust. “I would never lie to my King, Father,” Lyannath assured Robert his voice dryly honest despite the mocking cast of his face. “I have sketches for your perusal, should you wish to see them,” and Lyannath took a single step forwards and offered a scroll of paper for Robert to take, which the King did so angrily. “As you can see,” Lyannath pointed out in long drawling tones, “he bears the aspect of Rhaegar and the Mad King.”

 

Robert stared at the arrogant features of the white haired dethroned prince with rage, the edges of the portrait crumbling beneath his heavy fists, and let out a furious roar. “I will burn him!” The Usurper snarled, balling the portrait up in one fist, “I will burn them all!”

 

Lyannath watched the King leave with calculating eyes, knowing that without Jon Arryn to curb his fathers passions, Robert would mount an invasion force upon the free lands of Essos. Long fingers traced finely sculpted lips and Lyannath shared a long look with Petyr, who made his way to the dark Prince’s side hesitantly.

 

“Was that wise, my Prince?” Petyr Baelish questioned lightly, his clever grey eyes gleaming beneath his dark brows.

 

“My dear Lord Baelish,” Lyannath smirked coldly, eyes glittering with malice, “surely you know what happens next?”

 

Petyr’s eyes widened after a beat, realisation striking hard and fast. “Winter is coming,” he murmured, shocking Jaime and Cersei, who were unabashedly listening in. Petyr smiled at the youth beside him, impressed despite himself. “May you be this cunning upon the Iron Throne, my Prince,” Petyr bowed lowly and departing to his houses so that he could plot his counters to this stunning move. Yes, Robert Baratheon would be very unwilling to act without Eddard Stark by his side now that Jon Arryn had passed; the Prince had manoeuvred that well.

 

Cersei took in the strong features of her eldest child and wondered just where he had learned it all. She certainly had spent little time in teaching him the intrigues of the Court and the Game they all played, and Robert barely looked at the boy, let alone taught him anything of use, for all that the King professed his love for Lyannath and took pride to claim the best of his deeds for his own. Smiling, Cersei came to stand by her eldest sons side, resting a hand on his broad shoulder, “I am proud of you, Lyannath,” she spoke softly, accepting her brothers guiding arm as she left the hall gratefully.

 

Lyannath watched them leave with shining green eyes, sweeping a long-fingered hand through his long black hair, that had gone far better than he could have planned. Lyannath mounted the dais with carefully deliberate stride, long and steady, and with cautious hands, Lyannath ran his long-white fingers along the edges of the swords that made up his fathers throne. Ambition and victory thrummed deep within his chest and, for the briefest moment, a deeply covetously hungry cast overwhelmed his expression making him look more beast than man.

 

 _One day_ , Lyannath promised himself darkly with glittering emerald eyes, _he would own this Throne for it was his by birth-right_. A hand dipped into his padded black doublet and he removed a folded scroll and stared into the face inscribed within. Long white hair, wide purple eyes and rounded full lips that smiled almost hesitantly at the viewer in uncertainty, and Lyannath allowed a viciously triumphant smile to overtake his lips.

 

 _Daenerys Targaryen_ , he whispered silently though lips that barely moved, like the Iron Throne before him, _would be his to own and to rule_ , and his emerald eyed glittered at the thought, triumph flooding him. Lyannath let his head fall back and he laughed loud, long, and high, the malicious smile curdling the stomach of anyone unfortunate to hear it; and deep in the shadows of the tapestries behind the throne, Varys shivered in dread at the sight of the usually emotionless black figure laughing like a maniac before his fathers throne. It was a sure sign of things to come, the spider was certain, and he trembled at the very thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wanting to heckle me for more chapters (or preferably give feedback more personably than commenting below) can find me here: [on my tumblr](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/)


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